


Requiem for the Falling

by Rabid_X



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, BAMF Sam, Episode Related, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sex, demonic non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabid_X/pseuds/Rabid_X
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was Sam up to in his Mystery Spot induced solitude? How hard would one lone Winchester have to be to survive?<br/>Major Character Death is episode related (and I assume you've seen it so you know it ends well)<br/>Posted on Live Journal 2008</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem for the Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I do this for the fun.  
> Notes: strippedpink (live journal) brought this up and asked people to join in the fun. I did, after Prometheus Harpe told me of it. Beta’d by my heterosexual lifemate and sweet baboo, Prometheus Harpe.

The only thing that got Sam on his feet was the sound of a siren. Dean would’ve killed him if he’d gotten caught. Methodically and quickly, dad’s voice echoing in his ear, Sam got a tarp out of the depths of the Impala’s trunk and wrapped Dean up in it. The only hesitation came with shutting the trunk on Dean’s body. Sometimes Dean hated the dark even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Bobby had looked stricken when Sam showed up on the porch, Dean’s body in his arms. Sam spilled the story of endless Tuesdays out as the pyre grew, fresh cut wood still bleeding sap. His voice and eyes had been wide and mad, the plan forming even as he’d worked. He didn’t even notice how frightened Bobby had become at Sam brushing off every comforting hand. 

Once Sam had gathered all of Dean’s ashes and put them in a box covered with sigils and protective runes, he hit the books. Trickster lore was vast and confusing but he wasn’t going to let it go. He’d left Bobby’s in the middle of the night, leaving a note that he’d be in touch.

Ruby showed up once, talking softly about the need to become prepared. Sam nodded and asked her to help him. She refused and Sam beat her nearly to death - would’ve killed her if Bella hadn’t stolen the Colt - but she’d got away, spells of protection and obfuscation spilling from her ruined lips. He couldn’t even get her demon slaying knife from her and he could hear John chastising him for his incompetence.

He tracked Bella down at last but she didn’t have the Colt anymore. He didn’t beat her though; someone was already taking care of that. She begged him to help her rid herself of the demon who had made her his lover, past sins catching up with her. She offered him her body as incentive and he almost took it but he pulled away, disgust rising in the back of his throat. 

Sam felt her lover coming before the demon even opened the door and he slipped out the side door, ignoring Bella’s pleas and curses. He sat in the car, flinching at each scream, finally snatching up a gun and going back in. He shot the demon in the back of the head even as it rode Bella, tossing the gun down on the bed and walking out. 

Weeks later, he started attracting other hunters. There were a few who wanted to help, asking Sam’s advice or use of his growing reputation for tactics and firepower. They found him methodical to the point of anal retention and far too willing to go it alone, even for their rarified tastes. None of them stuck around long. Sam wouldn’t let them. 

The ones that showed up after that wanted his head. Sam fought them to standstills. Except for the one he killed, shooting the man after a long and terrible fight. He crawled back to his room to recover before moving on. No one came around after that, the rumors flying faster than bats at dusk about the last Winchester’s ruthlessness. Bobby kept calling though, and Sam kept letting the messages go unless he needed information. 

He spent his days researching or sleeping fitfully, dreaming of Dean’s hellish transformation or of the one Tuesday he got up the nerve to kiss his older brother. Dean had jerked his head back, eyes wide and lips wet from Sam’s slicked tongue. Then the boyish, trouble-making grin had come back.

“I guess we didn’t do that yet, huh?”

Sam had almost collapsed with relief and Dean had taken advantage of the slack to tackle Sam onto his bed and maul his throat not at all gently. It had been fumbling, sweaty and glorious, Dean the nervous one as he pushed into Sam. They said too many things, made too many promises for anyone to keep and it had been perfect. Even the guilt Sam felt at knowing it would all go away as soon as Dean died - gas pump exploding while Dean filled the Impala as they tried to leave town - it had been perfect. 

He knew now that the only thing perfect about any of this demon-driven life was the perfect shot, “One where they die, Sam. Otherwise it’s a waste of ammo and your life.” John taught him that, once Sam knew about the demons and begged to be shown. Dean had already known that, his aim steady and his snap shots viscously on target. Sam had practiced and practiced, John ruffling his hair each time he made a bullseye only to growl at Dean each time he didn’t. Sam let his shots get a little bit sloppier for a while after that, letting Dean reap the praise for a while.

No one would praise anyone about the vampire nest in Austin though. The job had almost gone ball’s up when another hunter showed. Cooperation had flown out the window when the guy turned his gun on Sam, spewing invectives about the Winchester Demon and Sam had gotten angry. Angry enough that he felt fingers of ice gripping the base of his brain and the hunter flew across the warehouse. The hunter fired and Sam returned the favor, only feeling the pain in his left side when he got to the car. 

Anger kept him going, got him into his room and the bullet out of his side. He would not accept failure, no more than John would. It was just a bullet. Flesh would heal, he would recover and he would fix this. 

He allowed himself to sob once, as he dropped the needle onto the dresser. Hands shaking, he pulled his shirt off and sat unsteadily on the bed. He would not pass out. His guns needed cleaning, the blood had to be dealt with and he *had* to get food into himself to counteract the blood loss. 

He slowly laid down and thought about Dean refusing to eat after being shot in the leg once. “I need to work off some steam first, Sammy,” he’d said with a wink before hitting a bar and banging a waitress in the stockroom. Then he’d come back to the room and told Sam all about it after making sure dad wasn’t there. 

“Getting shot’s kinda a rush sometimes, Sammy… hand me the fries will ya? Adrenaline and all that crap. I’m alive, gonna have a new scar and hey, scars can impress if ya know what I mean.”

Maybe Dean had been right. Maybe getting shot was a rush. It sure as hell dumped enough anger and fear into his system, making his stomach tighten and roll. The bullet hadn’t been fatal and Dean would’ve been impressed by the scar… 

Unthinking he slid his bloody hand down and undid his pants. Pain could be turned. Sam knew that. Pain could be used. It could be channeled into something better. Brighter and stronger. Blood was just another hot fluid, spilling out, giving life and death in equal measure. 

As he stroked himself, he thought about Dean’s scars. How it would be to map them all with fingers and tongue. What sort of squirms and noises Dean would make. Sam knew what some of them would sound like and he played them over and over in his mind, a loop of pleasure that he let ride low in his groin. 

He would get Dean back. He would touch him and taste him, not letting him up until Dean understood that this was what they had. That this was what he had to save Dean for. He needed Dean and fuck everyone if it was selfish. Dean kept him going. Dean would get it. He didn’t want to die. He’d told Sam that.

Gasping, he twisted his fist, trying to do what Dean had done months ago. Aching for the sensation that Dean’s callused hands had sent zapping through his body. He came, sobbing and growling, shame and tears stinging his eyes. Dean would get that. 

Later he made dinner, setting the plate that would never be touched as always. He cleaned his guns and deleted Bobby’s useless suggestions of getting together. There was no need for that, not until there was a solution. Not until he had the Trickster in his hands, promising to give back what he’d stolen. 

Dean would get that too.


End file.
